


I Cannot Feel The Fire

by wehadaspecialsomething



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Maturity, Kinda Sherlock AU, M/M, MalexMale, Slash, Virgin!Sherlock, sherlock/john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-27
Updated: 2012-05-02
Packaged: 2017-11-04 10:14:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/392710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wehadaspecialsomething/pseuds/wehadaspecialsomething
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(AU, sort of.) Sherlock is a member of the Elite, an emotionless breed who are trained to feel nothing. But then he meets John, and the sudden emotions cause him to get somewhat sick and psychotic. The one with the cure? The sociopath who went wrong. Rated for future chapters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One; Musgrave House

Sherlock

Musgrave House wasn't really a house. It was more like an academy; a place of learning, quiet and respect. But it wasn't only children who came here to learn. It was babies, forcibly removed from their mothers while they were sleeping. Adults who'd been going since the day they were born, for they hadn't completed their learning yet, and had no where else to go.

It was only the special children that were chosen to go, you couldn't just waltz in. You had to be carefully selected from birth, with the right DNA and genes to be initiated. But when you were chosen, you had no choice but to go. Parent's fought as the men in dark suits took their newly born child away from them, into the mysterious but highly protected Musgrave House. These children were never seen by their parents again, even if they did, by the time they were allowed out of Musgrave's accomodation, they'd be too old to recognise.

Once inside, these children weren't taught Maths, English or science, nothing like that. Their lessons ranged from anything from emotional detachment to reading people and objects like a book - or deduction as it was called by the professers there.

This 'school' was training them to become members of the Elite. One of the highest thought of races of mankind. They were cold, emotionless but brutally clever. A nessecity to police forces and members of the medicinal proffesion. There were very few fully trained members of the Elite, only about ten in the whole world. The rest were still at Musgrave House, people in their thirty's, still not quite done yet.

Mycroft Holmes and his little brother Sherlock were two members of the Elite. Mycroft was the best of the best, smart, powerful, uncaring but understanding of everything. He was part of the British government, no, he was the British government. If he said jump they said how high. Mycroft was forty-two, and had only finished his training two years ago. Sherlock was still in the academy, but well on his way to leaving. He was almost completley trained and at thirty-five, he was the youngest member to be even close to being let go. Once let go he would get a job as a consulting detective to scotland yard, the Detective Inspecter had pretty much placed dibs on him when he found out that he would be leaving the academy soon.

Mycroft of course wanted Sherlock to come into power with the government, like he had. But Sherlock was adamant that his brother would not rule his life like he had done when they were both in the academy.

"Don't you want a position of power? You'll be bored working with them, the ordinary ones." Mycroft had told him just before he left for good.

"No. I don't want any more time with you than necessary. Working with you would be of no enjoyment to me."

"Your not supposed to enjoy yourself, Sherlock. That's what the academy has said all these years."

That was true, but Sherlock had never really listened to the academy once he was past twelve. Whilst Mycroft was the best (in the academy's minds anyway), Sherlock was certinately the quicker learner. He'd learned the lessons taught to the twenty year olds at ten, by the time he was twelve he was a natural, showing no emotions for anyone. The only two people ever to get a response out of him was Mycroft and a youger student named Jim Moriarty. Both knew how to push his buttons, Moriarty especially. Sherlock never thought him a good choice for the academy. He was too reckless, angry and psycotic. He couldn't control his emotions, he couldn't just let them go like Sherlock and Mycroft had been able to. He'd be there for a long time. It was Moriarty who would torment him now that Mycroft had gone. He'd be worse than ever, insufferable in every way, a disease in Sherlock's life that wouldn't be cured until he'd left the care of the academy. Every time he begged to leave, they'd keep him in longer. Telling him that there was still work to be done, he couldn't be ready yet, no one as young as him was ever ready. But he was! He knew he was, he was as sociopathic as the rest of them.

In a way - and Sherlock didn't realise this - he wasn't ready to leave. Sherlock was... different from the rest of the 'students'. No matter what he said, he did feel things. They weren't the normal emotions that people felt, he'd never liked anyone particularly, nor had he felt sad or scared or happy. He was content, a constant state of thinking and seeing. But he got bored, so bored, so easily. It was like a constant battle in his head, always after something to do, but whatever that something was, he completed it so quickly that it seemed like he'd done nothing at all. The only thing that sated his desire for a distraction was the little mysterious that surrounded Musgrave. Students sometimes disappeared, the men in the black coats were only around when a new baby was inducted, where and who were they the rest of the time? When boredom became too much for Sherlock he entertained himself trying to solve these little puzzles. He'd never managed, he'd come close, but whenever the answer was in his grasp new evidence would be discovered that shut it down.

This was how he was entertaining himself now. It was dark at Musgrave House. The country side was always darker before the cities. This was a benefit of the academy. It was surrounded by woods and feilds, great places to walk when bored. Sherlock was outside in one of the many courtyards. Or rather, he was hiding in the shadow of an archway leading into one of the many courtyards. In the still darkness, he could only make out the silhouette of the fountain, the benches and the trees. But he could hear muffled voices, whispering quickly to each other. He craned his neck and squinted, but the two people talking couldn't be seen. They must be on the other side of the fountain, hidden in shadows and behind marble. He knew they were both Black Suits - the cruel men who took the babies away - for he'd followed them from the main hall. He was determined to find out what they were doing, whose orders they were following, for it clearly wasn't the headmasters. That old todger couldn't do anything now a days, he had no authority over anyone in the academy. All Sherlock knew about them was that they were all between forty and fifty, muscular brutes who relied on violence and a tough manner to deal with all situations. The suits hid weapons, guns and blades that were never used to hurt, just to threaten. They were told not to kill then, for these guys looked as though they'd kill anyone without batting an eyelid, whoever they were working for was powerful enough to keep the malicious side of them dormant until told otherwise.

A cool night breeze blew through Sherlock's dark hair and he shivered. He began to grow impatient, he tapped his fingers impatiently on the cool stone arch he was leaning on. "Come on, come on, just a little closer." The muffled voices were getting very slowly louder. It seemed like they'd moved, maybe sat on the bench of the fountain. If they were, it wouldn't be long before...

"Oh, fuck! This is a new suit! It's gonna get soaked." There. The cold spray of the fountain may seem tame at first, but whenever someone sat on it's edge, it was gaurenteed to get you the moment the wind changed. Sherlock smiled, they'd move now, probably closer. Yes, there! He could see them now, ten foot away from him, sat on a small wooden bench under a sycamore tree. He saw a small orange glow, a lighter. Soon after, both men were smoking slowly and infuraitingly silently.

Sherlock frowned, he mentally begged them to hurry, he was wearing nothing but a black shirt and black trousers, he was freezing in the late autumn night.

As if they'd heard his mental reproach, they began talking again.

"He's not going to like it. You know he ain't."

"He's gonna have to. I can't put up with his shit anymore, what does he think we are, dogs?"

Sherlock was listening intently to this conversation. Obviously there would be an uprising of some kind, maybe from this one man who was unhappy or from as many as he could get. The Black Shirts worked as teams usually, they always travelled in more than threes. It was likely that whoever this man was, he wasn't planning on working alone.

"Yeah, that's exactly what he thinks! He treats us like dogs cus that's all we are to him. Dog's on leads. But we can't come off that lead cus he'll be there waiting with a gun. Bad dog's get put down. D'you want that?"

There was silence for a moment, Sherlock had a grin on his face. Finally, something interesting. Who was this man? Who was the owner of the bad dogs? He wanted to find out more, desperately wanted them to slip the name of the man in control. He tapped the arch quicker, tapping his feet too in his impatience.

"No, I don't. But it ain't gonna stop me. This is gonna happen, i'm gonna make it happen. And there's nothing you can say to stop me, I've gotta overthrow him, he's gonna kill us all."

"I'm afraid I can't let that happen." Sherlock heard a faint movement then a gurgling noise that meant the other man was choking, being strangled? No, choking on something... Sherlock heard him hit his head on the tree behind his head, dead. The killer stood up and chuckled slightly.

"Been wanting to do that for a long time." He walked off, blowing the last of his cigarette smoke into the air behind him.

The night fell silent as his footsteps died away. He'd just killed a man, slit his throat and made him choke on his own blood - that seemed the most likely explanation to his death. Sherlock leaned back against the arch, breathing heavily. He was so close to finding out who was in control, so close, and then his source was murdered. How was he supposed to find out more now? This courtyard would be closed for a week so they could investigate his murder, it would take him ages to find another Black Shirt he could follow without being caught.

"Damn it!" He growled, punching the wall opposite him. With a sigh he stalked off down the open corridor and into the builing. The sudden glare of lights made him wince, but luckily the corridor was empty. He walked slowly towards the stairs, almost glad in a way that the murder had happened. That detective inspector would be here tomorrow when someone found the body, he liked him. The inspector always asked for his opinion, always wanted to know what Sherlock thought. It was nice being the center of attention, he would definately work for them without a qualm.

Once back in his room, he flopped onto his bed and toed off his shoes. He began unbuttoning his top, still shivering as his body had not yet regulated the temperature. He stripped until he was in his boxers then crawled under the thick duvet and buried his face in the soft pillow. He shivered a final time before warmth and sleepiness calmed him. He hadn't slept in two days, he welcomed the drowsiness. But he couldn't sleep yet, he just had to think a little while longer...

He knew that normal people would care about the dead man, pity him. Sherlock just wanted to know why he had to die. What was he talking about? Most likely an uprising, but why? Who was in control, why did he treat them badly? He had so many unanswered questions that he feared he'd never get the answer to. He was going to be so bored, trailing around, looking for leads. He didn't even know what kind of leads to look for! But he couldn't leave the academy until this was sorted. He didn't want to, he had an exciting mystery now, a case that he could work on to keep boredom at bay.

Which unfortunately, wasn't very good for him. Becuase when he woke up the next morning, he was beckoned into the headmasters office.

"Mr Scott." Sherlock greeted him with a firm handshake and took to the large leather seat in front of the desk.

"Mr Holmes." The headmaster steepled his fingers under his chin and grinned. His gray beard was too thick, his glasses too square, his ears too big, it was all very distracting. Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on just his voice. "I'm sure your aware that your progress here has been rapid and very succesful. Your our best, as good as Mycroft, in some cases better. We know how desperate you are to leave, god know's you've asked us often enough, so, with my permission, you may leave Musgrave House whenever you wish, with an open invitation to come back and visit whenever you like."

Sherlock froze in the seat. Visit? As in, leave then come back for a temporary amount of time? He stared at the headteacher intently, hoping to find him lying, but his face and hands said he was telling the truth. He was being let go, given permission to join the other ten members of the Elite, ready to leave.

"I can't."

"I'm sorry? I thought this was what you wanted." The head leaned forwards slightly, raising his eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Somethings come up, I can't leave just yet." Sherlock stood up, assuming that he could leave but the head coughed.

"Sherlock. You've found nothing interesting at Murgrave House since you were six. You've been constantly bored. What, could possibly be so entertaining that you now want to stay?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, "I can't say just yet."

"Look, I know you. Whatever you've found out, it's probably very important. Trivia frustrates you, you've been surrounded by nothing but trivia for years. Whatever this is, I need to know."

Sherlock said nothing, just lifted both his eyebrows. He stared, saying nothing, doing nothing, keeping his face completely neutral. This was a skill he learned from a very young age. If he kept his face clear of everything, then no one could deduce him, he kept himself to himself, which was fine with him.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"I don't think it concerns you. Now, if you don't mind, i'll be staying for a little while longer."

"No. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be here later to pick you up. You are leaving, Sherlock."

"Is he not here already?"

"Should he be?" Ok, so the head didn't know about the murder yet. Well, he was definately going to find out soon. Classes started in half an hour, in thiry minutes students would be flocking the courtyard, investigating and deducing what they believed happened. Of course, all their theory's would be wrong, no one was as good at deduction as Sherlock.

"No, not at all. Goodbye." Sherlock ignored the call of the head as he left, slamming the door behind him. He walked quickly back to his room, gathering his stuff into a duffle bag. He wouldn't leave, he'd just make them think that he had. Lestrade would come for him, but he'd leave a note telling him he'd got the bus into London. He'd believe it, he had no reason not to. And when they found his room empty with clothes missing, they'd assume he was really gone. He'd stay, of course he would, hiding in unused rooms until the mystery was solved, what else could he do? Finally, something in life was interesting to him, something he wanted to do, they were not going to let that slip out of his grasp.


	2. Chapter 2

John;

He'd been back a week and London was destroying him. His little flat was bare, boring, it reflected nothing of his personality, it was dull and lifeless. This wasn't him, not at all. Less than ten days ago he'd taken a bullet to the left shoulder, they got it out quick enough but they told him he couldn't stay in Afghanistan.

Already he missed it. He missed his friends, his patients, he missed being able to fight and let out the built up anger that came with being an army doctor.

After yet another nightmare, another morning of waking up sobbing, he silently reached for an apple and a cup of tea. He thought that maybe his life would change. That John Watson would be brought back, not this lifeless shell he'd so quickly become. He wanted adventure, danger, something or someone to make him happy again. He couldn't remember the last time he cracked a smile...

Sherlock;

Lestrade came rushing up to him the moment he left the head teachers office. "Mr Holmes!"

"Sherlock, please." He said, shaking the detective's hand. "Your here to collect me I presume?"

"Yes, and interrogate the murder that happened here late last night. You wouldn't happen to have seen the crime scene?"

"No, but I'd love to. Courtyard?" Only half of that was a lie. Obviously he had seen the crime scene - just not in daylight, where he could take a good look at the man, see if he's familiar. The other man was clumsy and quick; there'd definitely be some way to deduce who it was.

The once beautiful courtyard was being torn apart by police. Sherlock was momentarily stunned. This place was perfectly symmetrical, a tree in each corner, a large circular fountain, a bench on each path, completely relaxing. He often sat here to think or get away from the masses of people who silently stalked the corridors thinking they were as good as him. Now the green of the grass was turning into brown mud as the forensic team traipsed across it. Wrapped unmercilessly around the trees was yellow crime tape that would pull of the rough bark when taken down. Blood splattered the bench and floor and the fountain was now being used as a table to hold all the police equipment. It was a painful sight.

Sherlock looked at the victim, man in his mid-twenties, a thug definitely, been in more than a few fights in his life, clearly not a well-liked bloke. It was no wonder he got killed. Planning to overthrow someone whilst being a dick generally led to murders. It was something Sherlock had learned over the years.

He stood next to the body and cocked his head to the side. He didn't need to deduce how long he'd been here - he'd seen it all happen. He wanted to show off, be clever, but this time he'd just been lucky and witnessed it. Not that he was going to let Lestrade know that.

"Been here about six hours judging by the amount of blood and the wound on his neck, mid-twenties, bit of a thug so probably had a lot of enemies. Going on the deepness of the wound I'd say this wasn't a planned attack but nor was it an accident. Provoked, maybe this man said something he shouldn't have to the murderer. He didn't like it, so killed him."

"And the murderer?" Lestrade prompted, "What about him?"

"Probably the same age, smoker, not an angry man this is someone who can control their temper. Someone who works in and around the school - bringing in the students along with this man probably. Acclimatized to violence so must have a history of abuse - given most likely, look for any staff member with a criminal record and narrow it down from there." Sherlock gave a quick smile to Lestrade before turning away, he'd given enough information, and all he had to do now was hope that kept them busy. He'd pretend to be packing, getting ready to leave with Lestrade then find a nice place to hide until they'd all gone. Of course he'd have to leave Musgrave at some point to kidnap the police reports and autopsy results but he'd deal with that when the time came.

He'd almost gotten to the arch when he was called back. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before spinning round with a completely fake smile.

"Yes detective? I've given you enough to work with; don't you think you should be getting on?"

"Yeah, Sherlock, you've done more than enough. But you're coming with me, I'm afraid. Can't just have you wondering off." Lestrade looked to one of his prized forensic team - an idiot named Anderson - and pointed to the body, "Your turn. Get some of his blood sent over to Molly Hooper immediately. We need to run DNA."

"Of course, I'm not planning on it." Sherlock said, "I'm going to pack. I'll meet you out front in an hour."

Lestrade nodded and Sherlock made his hurried exit into the building. The corridors were empty. He got to his room quickly and threw on his long black coat and blue scarf. He wouldn't need much, couple of shirts, few pairs of trousers, that rectangular magnifying glass his brother had sent him one birthday...

All this fit into one relatively small black bag. Once his stuff was packed away so they wouldn't find it, he wrote a quick note saying that he'd gone ahead to Scotland Yard without Lestrade to enroll himself as their new consulting detective. He wrote that he didn't like police cars and would prefer to travel in a taxi. Once he'd done this he left it on his bed and placed his hand on the door handle, in a few minutes he'd be free to investigate this crime scene, and then leave whenever he liked without being talked to for one minute. Oh how he would enjoy this.

"Ah, Sherlock. I was just gonna knock for you." Lestrade was waiting with his hand raised just outside Sherlock's door. "I'm not needed down there at the moment so I'm taking the opportunity to get you to London. Packed, I see. Let's get going then."

Oh this was not the plan; no he didn't want this at all! Lestrade wasn't meant to be here, Sherlock was supposed to be able to hide in the academy, not be dragged away instantly.

"You ok, Sherlock? Bit quiet. Come on." Lestrade held out his arm, forcing Sherlock to walk in front of him. He couldn't get out of it. He couldn't run, he'd be followed, there was no excuse he could use, Lestrade would just follow him and make sure he got him into the police car. He made up his mind quickly, he'd go to London, find somewhere cheap to live and come back to the academy as soon as possible. With or without detective inspector Lestrade snapping at his heels.

He climbed into the police car somewhat unwillingly but determined to keep his dignity he didn't grumble a bit. Lestrade sat in the driver's seat and turned on the ignition. Sherlock had been in a car once before. He'd been allowed to go into London City Centre for the day to see how well we reacted with society. The results were... not good. He'd verbally assaulted more than ten people and made a child cry. He'd told a love struck wife about her husband's affair and managed to spot and tell three adopted children about their real heritage. He wasn't allowed back again. But he had helped this sweet old lady Mrs. Hudson out; her husband was abusing her and he made sure that the man spent the maximum time in jail. She'd promised him whatever he wanted. Wasn't she the one with the little flat available? He'd have to check that out.

He looked out the back window, taking a last glance at the academy. He'd see it again, but for thirty five years it had been his home. The red brick walls went up five floors and met the slanted gray roof. It was a large building, the front one anyway. Musgrave house was made up of several smaller buildings connected with courtyards and outdoor corridors with arches looking into the courtyards. The front however showed none of the warmth that the rest of it did. It was intimidating to normal people, it looked more like a mansion than a school, but Sherlock supposed that was deliberate. Sherlock wouldn't miss it, didn't mourn his departure, wasn't nervous about his new life, but he must admit, it would be hard being away from it for so long. He'd have to find a flat mate who could split rent with him. He'd have to learn how to talk to people, be able to shop (how he hated that experience when it was forced upon him). He was a member of the Elite now. Fully trained, emotionless, about to start work as a consulting detective. This is what he was born for. As he left the academy's beauty and peacefulness behind, he wondered how he'd last a day in London. It was loud and noisy, no place for such a sophisticated being as him.

Lestrade was talking, about nothing in particular, and Sherlock wasn't really listening. But the noise was drilling into his ears, already it was too loud. Outside the trees bright greens entranced him. He'd like to do experiments with the leaves, try and force the chlorophyll into a vial and make it change colors. That's how he'd entertain himself, experimenting. That kept boredom at bay for a short time anyway.

The ride to London and through the busy streets was boring. Then again, Sherlock was always bored, but this had to be worse than anything else. Sitting in a small car, listening to obnoxious music on the radio, hearing the deathly roar of traffic outside and the constant honking of horns. He wished desperately for a distraction, anything at all. He twiddled his thumbs – a phone. He'd get a phone. He could annoy his brother and correct those infuriating Wikipedia pages on long journeys.

They pulled up to Scotland Yard and Sherlock shot out of the car, slamming the door behind him. He walked right in, leaving Lestrade to walk behind and murmur explanations and apologies to the reception staff. He got to the back where all the offices were and looked through the windows, deducing which one was Lestrade. When he found it, he stepped in – unlocked, not the best idea – and got comfy in the right chair.

Lestrade followed him closely and sat in his chair. "Ok, so this is where you'll report when you have new information about crime scenes. Tell me and no one else, it's completely between us and I'll decide what to do with your information. You won't have an office of your own, so you'll have to find a flat or somewhere to keep all your stuff. Sargent Donovan is the second in command to me, if I'm not available, find her. Anderson next. He'll be at most of the crime scenes working with forensics."

Sherlock nodded, taking everything in for a change, he needed this information. This would be his job for the rest of his life, Elite and working, what he'd been aiming for. He found he quite liked Lestrade. He was quick, to the point and told him things bluntly. He was a bit of a stereotypical bloke though. Problems with the wife, liked a drink in the pub every now and then, bland sense of humor that would get on Sherlock's nerve after a while. But he supposed he could deal with him, he was a good enough man to be his boss – of sorts.

They're next stop was St Bartes hospital. This is where his lab would be, and there he met Molly Hooper – immediately smitten with him, what a joy – and an obnoxious fat man named Mike Stamford who asked him infuriating questions and eventually led Sherlock to telling him about his need for a flat mate. The morgue was large and clean; Molly was a confident pathologist and did her job well. She was smart definitely, but if she kept up with the dreamy look and stutter when she was around Sherlock she'd soon become more than he could bear.

Sherlock set up a lab of his choice with the equipment he wanted and various chemicals. He asked Molly to bring him a phone and phone book – he'd call Mrs. Hudson while he was here and ask about that flat.

She told him it would be a pleasure having him stay there and he hastily packed a couple of hospital equipment into a box and ran them down to the reception. He'd be taking those to the flat. He hurriedly called Lestrade and got him to drop off Sherlock's bag of clothes to the flat and went back to the lab with the blood samples of the dead man that Lestrade had given him. Mike and Molly had left a while ago, Molly due to come back with a coffee any moment.

So when the door opened and Sherlock looked up expecting Molly, he got quite a shock when Mike came in followed by a short army doctor with a psychosomatic limp and a therapist. Well clearly this man was coming here to be his new flat mate.

He found the man – his name was John – helpful, quiet but of moderate intelligence and plenty of flaws that Sherlock would have considerable fun fixing with him knowing. After discovering John served time in Afghanistan, he left in a hurry and met John at the flat the very next day.

John;

It had been a week since moving in with Sherlock. A week and John had almost had enough. Everything he did was infuriating, the experiments spilled over the edge of the kitchen table, body parts and rotten food littered the fridges and cupboards and whenever he wanted to watch TV, Sherlock would shout at it, questioning the people and the programs with needle like precision. However, there were little things about him that John found… almost endearing. He was smart, very smart, and intelligence was one of John's turn ons. When he was in a good mood, he was witty and made John laugh – most of the time accidently with his severe lack of common sense and basic knowledge. He was a nice man, once he got to trusting John; there was a lot about him that John found interesting. For example, he was the newest member of the Elite, a group of prestigious people who were simply the best. John found himself lucky to be living with him.

"Sherlock, where's my cane?" John asked one morning after coming out of the shower. Sherlock was sitting with his feet drawn up to his chest on his little gray armchair, grey piercing eyes closed and long fingers steepled under his chin. His lips – curvy and full – where curled slightly downwards in thought.

"Hmm?" Sherlock's usual one syllable answer came from the armchair.

"My cane, Sherlock. Where have you put it?"

"My room."

John frowned and sat down in his own chair, fidgeting against the union jack cushion Mrs. Hudson had given him. He was wearing nothing under his blue fluffy robe and his slightly damp body rubbing against the material was getting uncomfortable. "Why is it in your room?"

"Why not?"

John simply nodded, "Right." This was just another one of his quirks that John had had to get used to. Annoying but he could easily deal with it. He stood up and went to get it. He got to the fridge and then Sherlock called him back.

"Why do you need it?"

John looked at him, those amazing eyes now blazing and open and staring at him intently. John ignored the curling in his stomach that look gave him and shrugged. "It should just be in my room, that's all. Sentiment?"

"Oh I'm no good with sentiment. Carry on." Sherlock eye's closed again and John rushed to Sherlock's room, grabbed his cane then headed up to his room to change. When he came back down, Sherlock had moved. He was now pulling the same facial expression with his hands in the same place. However, his legs were over the back of the arm chair and his floppy dark hair was on the floor.

"What are you doing?" John sighed crossing his arms.

"Thinking. We may have to go out today. In fact we have to."

"Oh," John raised his eyebrows quickly and looked round the rooms for clues as to where they were going, "Uh, where and when?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and grinned, upside down it looked more sinister than handsome. "Musgrave House. We're leaving at ten tonight. No one is to know."

"Musgrave House? Isn't that where you were… Uh, trained?" He hated thinking of Sherlock as a student anywhere, hated that his intelligence wasn't his to start with. He didn't want there to be anyone else as intelligent as Sherlock – it wasn't right! But he sucked it up. He only knew one Sherlock, this Sherlock, and he was a genius, hilarious and witty and John could get over it. He just didn't particularly want to go to Musgrave. Of course, he'd go anyway. It was Sherlock; he'd always go with him. What that meant for him, he didn't know. But he guessed it wasn't good.

They were at Musgrave by two minutes to eleven. John was awestruck by the sheer size of the place. It was huge! Red bricked and he had to admit, it was quite intimidating. Sherlock seemed completely at ease here, after checking all the lights were turned off, he crept round to the side of the building and beckoned John over. He hurried to Sherlock's side and whispered, "Where are we going? The door's over there. You have a free pass to come back here whenever you want, why are we sneaking around?"

"Surely you knew that you'd be sneaking in? Why else would we come here at this time of night?" Sherlock looked quickly from left to right and carried on moving down the wall, hands splayed to his sides, fingers grazing over the brick. When they got to the back of the building, John gasped. It was a huge garden. Or green or something like that. Rose bushes lay on the edges of gravel pass ways which all led to a massive fountain. Surrounding the garden was various buildings of varying sizes; John supposed they were the classrooms. They were all square looking, and joined together by courtyards similar to this garden place.

Sherlock had been taught and raised here, John thought, everything he knew he knew because of this place. It was breathtakingly beautiful and radiated intelligence. Whatever they were doing here couldn't be good. Sherlock didn't want anyone to know he was here; this was clearly for something so confidential that his friends here didn't even know he was coming.

They crossed the garden quickly, crouching slightly. It was almost pitch black, apart from the lights of the fountain. Sherlock mumbled something about those being new and carried on hurriedly.

They leaped the wall into a courtyard. It looked as though crime tape had been put around these trees once, which would explain why Sherlock was so interested in this place all of a sudden. He crept over to a bench with a rather large blood stain slowly vanishing into the ground. "Why are we here, Sherlock? Are you meant to be solving this… murder? Or whatever it was."

"Not really." Sherlock frowned, "It was a murder, Lestrade caught the man who did it, I witnessed this murder actually. But it's why he was murdered that interests me."

"What were the motives?" John asked curiously.

Sherlock quickly filled him in on what he thought happened. John was interested from the start, a potential over throwing of a mysterious man whose control and commandment over who Sherlock called the Black Suits was unknown. Obviously it was someone dangerous; otherwise he wouldn't be under the firing line by their own staff.

"Nothing!" Sherlock growled after five minutes of looking at the ground and the surrounding trees. "I don't have anything new!"

"What exactly are you looking for?"

"Clues as to who's the leader of the Black Suits. I don't know who it could be; it's probably one of the students, but which one?" He began walking towards through a nearby archway and opened a large wooden door that led into the building next to it. He gestured for John who came with him into the light of the building.

Inside was just as grand. It was furnished with shelves of books and large armchairs with massive red cushions. The books were all lordly volumes, looking sophisticated and intelligent in a low ceilinged and warm marble hall.

"What is this place?" John asked, gaping around.

"The over thirty's rooms and the three halls down there are for lectures on Emotional Harvesting."

"Emotional Harvesting?" That sounded slightly gruesome and John wasn't sure he wanted to know what the answer was.

"It's a painful experience. They teach us to rid us of emotions, completely shutting down our hormones that cause emotion. Sometimes they have to resort to physical methods. Except in my case, I'd rather teach myself how to not feel than be beaten out of it."

John stopped in his tracks, pulling on Sherlock's arm until he stopped walking too. "You… well not you, but you could have been beaten out of feeling?"

"Yes. Once the process is complete, if you ever feel again, you get very sick. That's why Elite's never marry or feel in love, they're either too scared too or physically can't. For example, if I fell in love with you for instance, I'd probably die due to the sudden rush of feeling. It's a lonely life, but we're trained to deal with it."

Well that was it then. Sherlock would never be able to feel anything for John. He trusted him, but that wasn't an emotion at all. Whatever John had imagined could happen between them – which as of the last three days was an awful lot – could never happen. Love would kill Sherlock, so John had better hope this little crush would never develop into something more. Unfortunately for him, he knew it probably would.


	3. Chapter 3

The corridor they were in seemed to stretch on for ages. It was so long that even though John stared intently into its depth, he was rewarded with arches disappearing into darkness. Sherlock seemed to be able to work through the darkness; he knew exactly where he was going.

He led John down a couple of hundred metres and stopped outside a large double oak door with no window. It was only clear that there was someone in there because of the warm light that seeped under the door and illuminated a few centimetres of the hallway. Sherlock put a gloved finger to his lips indicating for John to remain silent and then leant against the cool wall next to the door. He pressed his ear into the crack of the door and listened intently. John crept quickly and quietly over to the other side and pressed his own ear in to listen.

"Tell them to keep their noses down. Don't draw attention to yourself on house raids. He knows about the scheduled uprising."

"Oh that's why he's gone. We thought you'd just had enough of him cus he was a prick."

"He wasn't a prick, he was our best student. He was just too good. I couldn't keep him here. He knows far too much. He's going to be back to investigate, we don't need any more of his attentions on us."

"And you think he's gonna what? Kick the crap outta us? I'd like to see 'im try."

"Don't underestimate him! He's strong as well as smart. He'll have help by now too. It's likely that he's told that Lestrade about his suspicions about the school."

"You think he knows everything? About the boss's plans?"

"He might. We won't know for a while. But keep an eye out for him. He's going to be sneaking around here quite often. Find him, kill him."

"Yeah, sure thing. Want me to alert the others?"

"Not all of them no, only let a few know, only the best. Moran preferably."

"Ah what? He ain't good for nothing. No muscle."

"But he's got brains. That counts for something. Especially since none of you lot have any yourselves. You're my muscle, so tell Moran to keep an eye out, lay some traps, and get him to alert you if he sees him."

"Yeah, yeah alright. Whatever sir. I'll let 'im know immediately."

"Don't let the boss know though. If he knows he'll take control of the academy. We cannot lose everything we've been working for."

"Sure thing sir."

John heard movement and scraping chairs from inside the room, he was preparing to make a break for it, but Sherlock grabbed his forearm tightly and pulled him away from the wall and straight across the corridor into a small closet. The moment the closet door shut, John heard the other door open.

Both of them stayed silent for a while. When they heard the other door shut and the footsteps disappear completely, John let out a breath he hadn't known he was holding.

"Want to explain what that was?" John whispered. The closet was dark; he fumbled around the small room and around Sherlock's long body until he found a cord. He pulled, illuminating the room in dim flickering light.

"That was my old head teacher and a Black Suit." Sherlock sounded shocked, John looked at him intently; his eyes were flickering as often as the light, his brow furrowed and his lips moving in constant silent speech, occasionally the silence was broken by outbursts of thought. "I don't… I don't quite understand. I thought – I knew – that the Black Suits were organising an uprising against their leader. I knew that. I just… there's something else. 'The bosses plans.'" He breathed into his fist, "They're looking out for me, getting ready to kill me if they catch me sneaking about. There's something big going on here, John."

"Yeah and it's probably best that you keep out of it for a little while."

"I can't. Whatever it is, I'm assuming it's going to happen soon. I'll have to use that open invitation somehow. They won't kill me in broad daylight In front of their students."

The small room was beginning to make John feel claustrophobic. It was only about six by six and Sherlock's body was pressing into his in a way that wasn't exactly uncomfortable. He tried to focus less on the sensation of Sherlock's arm and heavy breathing and more on how they would escape the school unnoticed.

"Sherlock."

"Not now, John. Thinking."

"That's all very well but," John nibbled on his bottom lip for a second, "Could you maybe do that when we're home?"

Sherlock looked quickly down at him, making John feel very small and very vulnerable. Sherlock's impenetrable grey eyes bored into John's, forcing John to break the eye contact and stare at the floor.

"We really need to leave, before they look in here."

"Who would look in here?" Sherlock asked, eyes now closed again and lips parted against his fingertips. John rolled his eyes and took a deep breath, trying not to imagine those curvy lips breathing against his mouth, his stomach, his...

"Sherlock," It came out a little croaky so he cleared his throat and tried again, "Sherlock, this is a supply closet. The caretakers have to come here sometime, don't they?"

"Not this time of night."

"Oh and we're going to wait here until morning when they do?" John was getting annoyed, the heat was quickly building in the room, under his black jacket, wool jumper and shirt, John was flustered and uncomfortably hot. "We should leave now, while no one's around."

Sherlock sighed loudly and slumped against the wall. He travelled down the wall and kept sliding down until his knees bent and he was sat on the floor. His hands stayed steepled in front of his lips and John knew that there was no point arguing with him, if he left now, if he left Sherlock, someone would find Sherlock later. He needed John here with him, so if they did leave it too late, John could tell him and they could get out. If Sherlock stayed alone he'd get lost in his thoughts and lose track of the time. Even with that ridiculously expensive watch he insisted on wearing but never checked.

"Care to fill me in on your thoughts?" John said as he removed his jacket and sat on it. The wall was a cold relief; it chilled him through his jumper and shirt enough to make him shiver pleasantly.

"Later. Scarf."

"What?"

"Scarf." Sherlock grunted, opening his eyes. "I'm hot. Take my scarf off."

John paused for a moment, the biggest WTF face on he'd ever used. "You want me… to take of your scarf for you?"

"And my coat, If you'd be so kind."

John's hands shook, part annoyance part disbelief. He didn't really have a choice. Sherlock was simply too lazy and too absorbed in his own head to remove his scarf and coat. If John didn't do it, Sherlock would overheat quickly. His hands shook as he reached over. His knuckles brushed gently over Sherlock's long pale neck; perfectly cool to the touch despite the heat Sherlock claimed he was feeling. He slid the scarf off Sherlock's broad shoulders and laid it over his lap. Sherlock silently leaned forwards and outstretched his arms helpfully so John could remove his coat. John was sure to be careful, slowly pulling his arm out one sleeve, then the other, as if doing so to a child with a broken arm. Sherlock raised his hips from the floor so John could slide the bottom of the long coat from underneath him. He then laid the coat on the other side of Sherlock so that there wouldn't be too much heat or weight over his legs. John felt a sense of satisfaction when he was done part undressing the detective. He'd liked it. It made him feel useful, even though Sherlock was perfectly capable of removing his own garments.

His breathing was ragged though. All the while he'd been taking off Sherlock's coat and scarf; he'd been imaging what it would be like to take off that silk shirt too, to feel the soft material peel off, revealing the pale, muscular and smooth skin underneath. He wanted to feel it, to touch it, caress it. He knew he shouldn't, he knew he was falling, down into a massive hole where the only person who could pull him out never would – never would be able to. It was going to hurt that fall. Falling is just like flying, only there's a more permanent destination. And john knew that if he fell now, he'd be permanently in love with Sherlock Holmes.

Time passed slowly. Each second dragged on, pulling John further into exhaustion and an unattractive sweaty heap on the floor. He needed a drink, water, beer, the acid that Sherlock insisted on keeping in the fridge; anything to quench his thirst. Food would be a great friend now too, his stomach was rumbling loudly in the quiet.

"Sherlock," John rasped, "This is ridiculous. You've got to be hungry, thirsty, bored, please can we leave now?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently; he dropped his hands from under his chin onto his lap. John felt slightly pleased to see a sheen of sweat on Sherlock's hand and face. Clearly John wasn't the only one feeling the horrible effects of the cramped cupboard.

"I've explained, John. I'm thinking."

"I know, you always are. But for god's sake this is ridiculous! No one is around, but they will be soon. You don't know how long we've been here. Can. We. Go. Home?"

"You really hate it here don't you?"

"Yes! I do! It's hot, cramped, boring, I'm tired, thirsty and hungry," and about this close to ripping your bloody head off, "So if you wouldn't mind getting off your arse and postponing your thinking for an hour, I'd much appreciate it."

"Fine."

John felt a wash of relief; he stood up quickly and grabbed his jacket from the floor. The thick air swirled around him and he felt dizzy for a second. His legs were slightly numb and he felt momentarily queasy. "God I need to get out of here."

"Ok, I'm coming. Give me a hand will you?" Sherlock reached up with his hand and John grabbed it and pulled a little too hard. Sherlock got to his feet and brushed down his suit. He picked up his coat and John opened the door ever so slightly, peering out.

A rush of ice cold air swept over his face and he closed his eyes, breathing in hastily. He hadn't noticed that the closet had a strange musky smell to it – not until he got a taste of the cool, fresh air outside anyway. There was no one in the corridor so with confidence he pushed the door all the way open and stood for a moment bathing himself in the welcome chill. "Oh god that's good."

"Yes, I must admit that is refreshing."

John smiled at Sherlock and received a smirk back. They headed slowly out the corridor and outside. The light was just slightly peeking over the top of the buildings, bathing the courtyard into a rosy golden glow. It was a beautiful place, if it wasn't for the things that went on in this place, John could quite happily picture himself here with Sherlock.

They left without a problem. They saw no one and no one saw them. It took them less than two minutes to get out the academy's perimeter and onto the front. They walked down through the drive and out past the trees until they reached the road that led back to London. Sherlock called a cab company and within half an hour they were on their way back to the flat.

John almost fell asleep in the cab. Sherlock kept his coat and scarf off and had placed them on the window seat. He himself sat in the middle of the cab, forcing John to take the seat next to him.

Jesus, does he even know what he's doing? Probably not. John was – for the second time that night – pushed unreasonably close to Sherlock. Again, he felt that warm comfort of Sherlock's arm, that relaxing gentle sound of his breathing and the friction whenever one of them moved slightly. All combined with John's exhaustion, it was a rather comfy position. It was hard for him to resist just laying his head on Sherlock's shoulder, wrapping his arm around his thin waist and going to sleep. His eyes were drooping and the moment he decided to let his control falter, they arrived at the flat with a sickening jolt.

"There you go, that's…" Sherlock pushed John roughly until he opened the cab door and through a fifty on the cabbies lap and grabbed his coat.

John stumbled to the flat and found himself unable to open the door. Sherlock took the keys from him and grabbed John's arm and put it round his shoulder. John had to tip toe slightly, but the help was welcome. John felt no hesitation and leaned fully onto Sherlock. Sherlock helped him up the stairs and into John's bedroom.

"You really are tired, aren't you?"

"Mm." John moaned as Sherlock pulled off his shoes and pulled the bed sheets over him.

"Get some sleep then. I'll bring in some water and those biscuits you like in case you wake up soon."

John mumbled a thanks and fell asleep quickly, the last thing that passed through his mind was the sudden care and compassion Sherlock had shown him when they got to the flat. He'd helped him get to bed without collapsing, brought him food and drink without being asked and just being a generally decent person. It was a nice change, one that John welcomed.

If only he realised what was happening.


	4. Chapter 4

It had been a week since Sherlock and John had broken into Musgrave house. It had been a week of silence, barely enough sleep, and hardly any food. Well, that had been Sherlock’s week anyway. John’s week had consisted of frustration, loneliness and more frustration. 

Sherlock had told him – on their very first meeting – that sometimes he didn’t speak for days on end. But John hadn’t really replied, he hadn’t said he’d mind, but he hadn’t said that he wouldn’t either. Now he was regretting that. He wished he’d told Sherlock there and then that human conversation meant a lot to him, it stopped him thinking about those long, lonely nights in Afghanistan. But he hadn’t. And now he was suffering for it.

There were never more than two sentences that passed between them at any point. John would try and coax him into conversation, bringing up something he loved or hated in the hopes of sparking communication. But each time he was met with a grunt of acknowledgement, a simple look that said, quite simply, ‘bugger off, I’m thinking’. Mostly he was just completely ignored.

John craved interaction. More than anything else, he just wanted to talk to someone. Mrs Hudson was hardly ever about as Sherlock’s cold demeanor scared her off.

He grabbed his coat and announced that he was leaving for a bit, Sherlock sat on his armchair in silence. John shook his head and headed out, with no idea where he was going, he just knew that he needed to leave; he’d go mental if he didn’t talk to someone soon. 

After an hour or so of walking, he found himself outside a rather comfortable looking pub. It was beginning to get dark and quite cold. A pint and maybe some cheese and onion crisps would do him the world of good. Plus, in a crowded pub, full of blokes chatting about football and kind, pretty bar staff, he was sure to find someone to converse with. 

“Pint of your best, please.” John said, leaning on the bar. The bar maid nodded and set about pulling him one. He took that moment to look around, comfy indeed! It didn’t seem like the type where fights broke out, or where girls got hassled, or where any trouble of any sort started. It was nice, warm, flowing with alcohol definitely, but everyone was laughing or talking quietly. It was pleasant, John’s type of pub. “Got any crisps?” He asked once he’d taken the beer in hand. Again, the bar maid wandered off and came back a second later holding some walkers. 

“£2.50 please.”

“Good prices, for a place so popular.” 

She smiled warmly, “Has to be, otherwise people wouldn’t come. We like to have a full house, full house means cheap beer.”  
He would’ve wanted to talk to her longer, she was a bit of a looker, with a gentle voice and shining eyes. The type of girl he’d normally be interested in. But she’d gone to the other side of the bar to serve a small group of men.

John soon found himself seated at a small table next to a reasonable sized man and a gorgeous woman who John assumed was his girlfriend. They seemed out of place, which may have been what drew John to them. The man was wearing a suit, an expensive looking, grey suit and polished shoes. He looked almost… government. His hair was short, brown; he had a strong nose and a slight smirk on his face that was almost menacing. But that was ridiculous, of course. Why would this man want to appear menacing to a man he’d never met? 

The woman had on a posh skirt and blazer with perfectly done hair and make-up. Far too dressed up to be in a pub.   
“What brings you two here? You look like you should be in some five star restaurants or something. Missed your reservation?” John asked politely. He took a sip of his beer and noticed that neither of the odd couple opposite had anything to eat drink. “Can I get you something?”

“No, that’s quite alright, thank you. We won’t be here long.” Said the man, he had a deep yet soft voice. It was persuasive and gentle but held a ring of authority. Definitely government, thought John. “I’d hurry and finish yours if I were you, you won’t be here much longer either.”

John’s glass halted before it touched his lips, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that sounded like a threat.”

“Oh no, no threat. But I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with me.”

This time the glass thumped onto the table, “What makes you think that? I don’t even know you.”

“You didn’t know Sherlock yet you moved in with him.”

“How do you know Sherlock? No, how do you know what I did? Are you two part of some kind of stalker group?”   
The man laughed heartily, “I guess it could be put like that I suppose. My name is Mycroft Holmes; I’m Sherlock’s older brother. We need a brief word with you.” The woman looked up from the phone she’d been typing frantically on and smiled briefly at John. She stood up and Mycroft followed.

“If you’ll follow me sir?” She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow at John who closed his shocked mouth and stood up slowly. He followed them out the pub – taking his crisps with him – and got into the sleek black car on the curb outside. The man sat in the passenger seat and gave a mumbled address to the chauffer. The woman sat next to John and began typing again.  
“Uh, where are we going?” John called to Mycroft, “And why didn’t he tell me he had a brother?”

“All in good time Dr Watson. I’ll explain when we’re somewhere less public.”

The car slipped into a heavy silence, John tried to remember the names of all the streets they went down but there was so many that soon he forgot them completely and contented himself with sitting and thinking. All I’d wanted was a nice night out, and what do I get? Dragged away by Sherlock’s brother. 'A brother I didn’t even know about. Just my luck.'

They arrived at a large and posh looking white building with a gold plaque attached to the wall. The Diogenes’ club it read. Mycroft politely held open the door for John and ushered him quickly into a spacious office and poured him a brandy. “Sorry for all this John, but you see, talking about my brother in public is dangerous. He’s usually got someone after him.”

“Why didn’t he tell me he had a brother? Just who the hell are you?”

Mycroft sighed and sat in an extravagant red leather arm chair. “Mycroft Holmes, the eldest Holmes child. I’m an Elite, the very best. Well, except maybe Sherlock, but we won’t know until he’s been out for a while. I went to Musgrave House; I finished almost three years ago. I haven’t seen my brother since. Haven’t spoken to him. I’ve kept constant surveillance, obviously, but it’s not enough. He won’t let me in, John. Not at all.” He paused and stared at a spot next to John’s head. For anyone else, they’d be feeling sadness, or great disappointment. Mycroft looked… thoughtful. As if he knew he should feel something, but not quite sure what. He was clearly aware and understanding of emotion, just unable to feel it himself. What a lonely life that must be, thought John, I wonder if Sherlock feels the same… He was snapped out of thought by Mycroft, “And yet, you walk into his life, just like that.” He took a swig of brandy and set it down on a small table, “Why is that, do you think? What, exactly, are you to him?”

Mycroft’s eyes pierced John, more than Sherlock’s ever had. This man, he realized, was dangerous. Not just ‘Sherlock when he was bored’ dangerous, but really deadly. He had power, and he’d use it. That look in his eye, the way he sat – legs crossed arms placed firmly on the arm of the chair – everything about him oozed power and authority. No matter who he said he was, even if John didn’t believe him, he would tell him what he wanted to hear.

“I’m… no one. Not really. I moved in with him yes, but I needed someplace to stay and he needed help with the rent so… yeah. Uh, he did take me to Musgrave the other day for…” John paused, not sure if Mycroft needed to know this.  
“It’s perfectly alright John, I know why you went there. But that’s not what I asked. What are you to him? A friend, a college? More?”

“What? No! Well, maybe. I’m definitely his colleague, but friend might be pushing it. I was under the impression that the Elite didn’t have friends.”

“We don’t, not really. It’s true we can form close bonds with people, as I’ve done with many people in the British Government, but we don’t take to people easily. Which is why I’m wondering what exactly it is you’ve done to Sherlock.”  
“Done to him?” John asked angrily, “What could I possibly have done to him? He doesn’t talk much, doesn’t respond anymore, he’s a machine! I can’t have done anything to him!”

“But you have. And whatever it is you’ve done, it’s potentially something dangerous.”

“If you’re suggesting that I’ve hurt him-“

“No, that’s not what I’m saying at all. You know he’s an Elite, I’m presuming you know what happens if we feel emotion, of any sort?”

Ok, now this was confusing John greatly. Whatever Mycroft was trying to say, it wasn’t coming across very clearly. John played along. “Yeah. You… get sick? It hurts right? Sherlock said that if there was a sudden rush, then you could die?”  
“Exactly. If emotion gradually begins to creep up on an Elite, they will get sicker and sicker, with each emotion comes a whole new level of illness. Eventually this process will end in death. Always. If an emotion comes on particularly strong – without having previously felt anything – then the rush is certain to end one’s life, painfully, I might add.”

“And why are you telling me this?”

“I’m beginning to fear that Sherlock is starting to feel again.”

John scoffed, “That’s ridiculous. Completely ridiculous. Sherlock wouldn’t-“

“But he is. I know my Brother John, and while I haven’t met him in person for almost three years, I’ve been keeping an eye on him. He’s not the person I knew, there’s something about him. Something new, that began when you entered his life. Emotion will kill him, John.”

Mycroft breathing calmly, despite knowing that his brother could be dying. John doubted he was, but there was that chance. Mycroft was an Elite. Sherlock was an Elite. It took one to know one…

“If he is feeling again – and that’s a big if - what could I have to do with it?”

“I don’t know. But something isn’t right here, not at all. Keep watching him; stamp it out of him, if he does start showing human signs.”

“Stamp it out? How?”

Mycroft sat in silence, looking at him, but he clenched his fists. When John gasped, he looked away quickly.  
“You want me to hurt him?” He stood up, “No. I wouldn’t. You’re his brother Mycroft! Even though you can’t feel, you’ve got to know how wrong that is!”

“I do. But it’s how we were trained. Sherlock was especially… resilient, when it came to beatings. He never cried, not once. But the look in his eyes showed fear, genuine fear, until that was beaten out of him too. If he starts feeling, you may have no choice. It’s hurt him a bit, or watch him die in agony.”

John shook his head and headed for the door. Mycroft didn’t get up to stop him; he just called out before John pulled open the door. “He’ll die John! You don’t want that, I know you don’t.” The door closed with a sharp click, and John headed angrily outside. 

There was no way, none, that John would lay a violent hand on Sherlock. There were times that he wanted to just punch his beautiful yet insulting mouth, but the thought had never seriously crossed his mind. Sherlock was too damaged in John’s mind already. Having your emotion beaten out of you once was bad enough. But doing it again, being beaten by perhaps your only friend, well, that had to hurt more than emotions right?

But he could die, you heard what Mycroft said. Even Sherlock said that... But John argued with himself. He wouldn’t die, because he couldn’t feel. He couldn’t. He just… couldn’t. That was all there was to it really. When- if- Sherlock did start to feel, there’d be another way around it. He wouldn’t beat his own friend. 

He’d walked for half an hour, just enough time to calm himself down a little. When he was sure he was composed enough to go back to Baker St, he hailed a cab. 

\------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“What’s taking him so long?” Sherlock asked out loud. There was no one else in the flat, so he had to assume he was talking to the skull on the mantelpiece. “He’s never back this late. Do you think I should look for him? Is that was people are meant to do?”  
Of course, there was no answer. While obvious, it was infuriating. John always answered, always said something back to him. It was a comfort, after being alone for over thirty years, having someone there who cared enough to listen. The moment John left; Sherlock knew that he needed to make John happy, otherwise he might lose him. He didn’t want to lose John, but he didn’t know how to make him happy. Once or twice, Sherlock had said something and John had burst into hysterical laughter. He hadn’t tried to be funny, he didn’t really know how to be, but John liked it when he was funny. Sherlock would try and be funny when John was back, and make John stay.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Sherlock knew this wasn’t normal for an Elite. They shouldn’t want to make someone happy, it just wasn’t done. He knew he’d bonded with John, but this was something new. Sherlock had bonded with Lestrade, not closely, but he understood and liked Lestrade more than other people. But he liked John a lot more than he liked Lestrade. A lot more. How much more, he wasn’t sure. They were… friends? He supposed so. But was that allowed? He didn’t think they could make friends, but here he was, living with a normal man, and liking it. 

Downstairs, the loud thud of the door closing made Sherlock jump. “John?” He called.

“Yeah?” John replied, stepping into the flat and taking of his coat, “You’re talking again?”

Sherlock nodded, “Where have you been?”

“Pub. Then your brother had a word with me. Care to explain?”

John was definitely annoyed. He was frowning slightly, arms crossed and shoulders straight. He was tapping his foot in a rhythm, staring intently at Sherlock with shining eyes. Sherlock didn’t understand why.

“What is there to explain?”

“You didn’t tell me you had a brother!”

“You didn’t ask.”

“You…” He threw his arms up in exasperation and dropped onto the sofa. He ran a hand over his face, suddenly relaxed. He looked tired; there were bags under his eyes. “Look, he told me something that I think you need to know.”

“If he wanted to tell me something he’d tell me to my face.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair and folded his legs. He hadn’t seen his brother in three years and suddenly he had a message for him? Unlikely he’d tell him through John, unless of course he’d finally given up trying to contact Sherlock. What a relief that would be…

“He thinks you’re starting to show emotions. He didn’t tell you to your face because you keep blocking him. Probably not the nicest thing to do, considering he’s your brother.” Now Sherlock understood. John was mad because he’d kept something from him. He really needed to grasp what normal people thought as necessary information. Clearly, family life was a definite necessity. “He’s worried you’re beginning to feel things again, he wanted me too…” No, John thought, I won’t tell him that. He doesn’t need to know what Mycroft wants me to do. “He wanted me to tell you.”

“How would he know? Even if I was – which I’m not – he has no… ah, security camera’s?”

John nodded. Sherlock sighed, “I’m going to have to talk to him about them. I’ve suspected something for a little while. He’s going to want to see me after all this time I imagine.” 

John could almost feel the cold radiating from Sherlock’s body. He didn’t want Mycroft anywhere near him that much was obvious. Why? John didn’t know, he guessed that Sherlock wouldn’t tell him without him asking, but maybe that information was still a little too personal. They didn’t get on, that was enough to go on for now. “Will he come here?” John asked.

Sherlock shrugged, “If I called him, I imagine so. But I’d much rather he didn’t. He’ll know my address anyway, but I’d prefer to visit him, not the other way around.”

“Why?”

Sherlock didn’t answer. John waited for a while before he was sure that Sherlock wouldn’t say any more on the subject. “Are you still staying silent or are you going to talk to me now?”

“Yes, yes I’ll talk. What do you want to talk about?”

John was going to say ‘the case’; really he was, so he was of course surprised when it came out as, “You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, your… feelings? The ones you may or may not be having. You could die, Sherlock. Dead. Are you positive that you’re not feeling anything?” John bit his lip, “Anything at all?”

“Pretty sure, John. I can recognize emotion. I may not feel it myself, but I’d know if I started feeling.”

“Can you recognize all emotions?” John sank onto his armchair and stared intently at him. Clearly he wanted this conversation to go somewhere. Sherlock couldn’t imagine why John was caring so much about him, but he guessed it was just part of being normal.

“Yes.” Sherlock said confidently. “There’s anger, sadness and happiness. Not much to learn really.” He shrugged, hoping to brush of the conversation completely, it was making him uncomfortable. After almost ten seconds of silence, Sherlock frowned. “Would you please stop looking at me like that? Close your mouth, you look like a goldfish.” For John was sat, open mouthed, staring with wide eyes at the detective.

“You think that those are the only emotions? Are you serious?”

“Why yes. That’s it, isn’t it? If there was more, I would’ve been told.”

“Clearly you haven’t. Sherlock, there’s loads more. Loads, like… fear, compassion, love… ringing any bells?” John was making this strange gesture with his hands, waving it in the air like he was in fact holding a bell. As if that was supposed to help Sherlock understand. He wasn’t a child, and all this talk was making him feel rather inferior.

“If they were emotions, I would’ve been taught about them.” He folded his arms and looked away from John, making sure John couldn’t see the toddler like expression on his face.

“How can you not know this? You were beaten out of feeling these things! Surely you remember feeling them.”

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t.”

“What do you remember then?”

Sherlock’s head whipped to the side, his cold grey eyes found John’s and pierced them so strongly John broke the eye contact after a mere three seconds. “The pain, John. I remember the pain, the agony, I can no longer feel severe pain, it’s true, but I can recall it perfectly. What they did to me… it’s not something anyone is likely to forget.” Sherlock took a quick breath, “I don’t know what those emotions are that you mentioned. I’m sure Mycroft does, if you want to talk about them to someone, talk to him, not me.”

John sat and waited for Sherlock’s loud breathing to return to normal again. Heavy breathing was a sign of anger. And the look In Sherlock’s eyes made it obvious he wasn’t completely normal. John thought that maybe Mycroft was right, and something was happening to him. And if there was… John shuddered. He didn’t even want to think about what that would mean for Sherlock.


End file.
